breaking in half. "Damn!" the man cried, "God damn!" He flung the piece of broken club into the dark mass of weeds by the lane. The dog moaned again, and again tried to shove itself along the ground. "Can't somebody find something?" the man demanded fretfully. The other two men stirred about, feeling along the ground with their feet or bending over. " A chunk of rock, or something," the man said. " God damn it, it's too dark," somebody exclaimed. The dog kept on moaning. The horses were moving restively. "We can't stand around all night," another man com- plained. "Aw, hell!" one of the men on the ground said in a tone of fatalistic disgust, and moved toward the dog. He withdrew his hand from his pocket. There was a faint click. The man was opening a knife. He leaned forward, over the dog, pushed the head back with one foot, thrust the blade down- ward and then jerked it sidewise. He straightened up, peering at the mass on the ground before him. He had cut the dog's throat. He stepped to the side of the lane, and bent over to drive the blade of the frog-sticker into the earth, time after time, to clean off the blood. Then he shut the knife, and dropped it into his pocket. Somebody else had takjn the dog by the hind legs and had dragged it into the weeds. The men moved up the lane, single file. The paleness of the dust of the lane was visible before them. They walked their horses on the side of the lane away from the field of tobacco. On the side by the field there were no trees or brush. On the side where they moved, a scraggly row of trees made a deeper darkness. Mr. Munn stared across at the tobacco field. It was too dark now to make out any- thing over there, but he thought how the spindly, miserable plants had looked and how he had felt when he saw them. Now he felt nothing.